


On His Watch

by Dragonsigma



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Harm to Children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 21:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7949389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonsigma/pseuds/Dragonsigma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>By all rights he should die for this, but Edrehasivar is far, far too forgiving.</i>
</p><p>The Emperor's son is injured in an assassination attempt, and Beshelar blames himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On His Watch

It is a rare day when the Emperor and Empress and their young son can spend time together that is more than rushed moments over breakfast. Though Edrehasivar makes an extraordinary effort to find time to give attention to Chelis, all too often his duties keep him occupied from waking until long past the Prince’s bedtime. He often frets that Chelis is lonely, with only his nurse and parents for company. His child, he says, should have more joy in his life than he himself ever did. Ino and Mireän are too old to be suitable playmates, and to associate with any other young children of the Court is fraught with politics, requiring interviews and doubts and fears.

Lieutenant Beshelar, for his part, believes that there has never been a child so loved or so protected. But he does not fool himself into thinking the life of an imperial heir will always be so simple.

Today, a meeting unexpectedly cancelled has freed an hour of Edrehasivar’s time, and so Chelis and Csethiro Zhasan have been summoned to the gardens to spend time together for the first time in days. It is late in the season, and a recent rain has muddied the paths, but that does not matter to any of them.

The Prince trots alongside his parents, chattering excitedly about all manner of topics, from the flowers that are beginning to wilt to tales he has invented for his dolls. His nurse, a frivolous and indulgent sort though certainly a woman to be trusted, has braided her charge’s hair in imitation of the hero of a story she read to him, or at least that is what he tells his mother when complimented on the decoration. Strictly speaking, it is not proper for a child so young, and Beshelar personally feels this to be a whimsy unsuiting to the future Emperor of the Elflands. But it is hardly his place to comment.

All is as it should be, and then Beshelar sees Cala’s ears twitch in alarm, and follows where he is looking: on the other side of the pond stands a man in the uniform of an junior gardener. He would be unremarkable, but Beshelar, who by necessity knows all the servants of the Alcethmeret, does not recognize his face, and there is something not altogether sane in his eyes.

“You! What is your business?!” he demands, loud enough to startle the Emperor and silence Chelis’s rambling.

The man growls something about _filthy halfbreed’s brood_ and raises a gardening fork to strike.

Beshelar grabs hold of Chelis’s collar and pushes him back, perhaps too forcefully, for the boy trips and tumbles to the ground with a small cry. And then his attention is taken up in the fight, in keeping this man from reaching the Emperor or his family. The imposter is unskilled, that much is evident from his stance and grip, but he is determined, and likely mad besides.

Beshelar is well aware that an unpredictable opponent can sometimes be far more dangerous than a trained swordsman, but the stranger still manages to land a blow that sends him stumbling back several steps before he can regain his footing. He feels something give under his boot, hears a high piercing wail that can only be Chelis. Sharp alarm spikes through him, but he cannot divert his attention from combat. He recovers his advantage, forces the man back to the edge of the pond.

And then there is a crackling of magic; the weapon drops from the imposter’s hands and within moments several guards, drawn by the noise, have him pinned to the ground.

Once the man is taken away, for questioning and eventual execution, Beshelar is finally able to look away from his opponent and survey the scene. Csethiro’s eyes are full of fire; the Emperor is staring in horror and hurrying to his son’s side. Chelis is still lying on the ground by the pond, clothes and silvery skin streaked with dirt, and his arm… his arm is bent and doubtless broken where Beshelar stepped back into him.

The breathless guilt strikes him, sharper than any weapon, guilt of the crawling, clawing sort, and though he knows it cannot literally tear his heart to pieces, what he _feels_ is not bound by such logic.

The Emperor’s heir is under his protection. He swore to defend him, was _trusted_ to defend him. And instead he has brought harm. This is something beyond apologies or amends. There is nothing he can do but offer up honor, body, lifeblood as recompense.

He kneels in the muddy grass and does not dare raise his eyes to meet his Emperor’s.

It echoes in his mind, now that he has space to think: that horrible sensation of _breaking_ , the child’s screaming… He can still hear Chelis crying, and voices: the Emperor ordering a guard to find Kiru Athmaza, Cala at the Prince’s side speaking comforting words that he cannot make out, Csethiro Zhasan in all her controlled fury demanding to know how this happened, how an attacker was able to strike them here, in the heart of the Emperor’s own residence.

Where they should have been safe.

Growing behind the guilt is shame. This, at least, is something he is familiar with; in mild measure it is an effective chastisement, a warning to correct himself. But this is overwhelming, bitter, choking.

He realizes with a dull horror that all of this is making itself known as a hideous ache in his throat, and the sensation of tears threatening is not so alien to him that he does not recognize it for what it is. Seized with the determination to not disgrace himself further, he struggles to blank his mind, to strip all this from his focus and reclaim some small scrap of composure, only to trip on the sudden and certain knowledge that he does not _deserve_ the relief that would give, nor the dignity. Not after what he has done.

He fears what the Emperor will say. But he must face it, and face whatever punishment his crime has earned.

But the Emperor does not say anything, and when Beshelar glances up, he sees that Edrehasivar’s attention is entirely given over to Chelis. Before he can do anything more, Cala is at his side pulling him to his feet.

“Are you hurt?” Cala demands, and it takes him a moment to register the concern, because his own condition does not _matter_ when he has injured the Emperor’s son.

“The Prince…” he manages, and can say no more, lest his voice crumble like the rest of his composure. He looks at his partner and for the first time in a long while, he finds he cannot read Cala’s face.

“His Serenity will need you,” Cala says, and if there is judgement in his voice, Beshelar does not know what it is. The thought of disappointing his Emperor yet again propels him forward.

When Kiru arrives moments later, it is Csethiro Zhasan who responds to her questioning look in terse direct words before her husband can speak. Kiru glances briefly at Beshelar and Cala but does not say anything, and moves to examine Chelis’s injuries.

Beshelar is sharply grateful that he does not yet have to explain himself - for he is not certain his voice could carry the words - but abruptly feels a coward for the sentiment. What sort of a protector is he, if he wants so badly to escape his duties?

Kiru looks up from where she sits leaning over Chelis, muttering diagnoses and comforting words, as firm and composed as ever Beshelar has seen her, though a good deal sweeter and gentler than she is in treating anyone grown.

“We will have to set and bind the limb. While we would trust Ushenar with such a thing, we would prefer to do it ourself,” she says, and turns to Beshelar. “Lieutenant, if you would carry him?”

Edrehasivar, still shaken, nods in agreement, and it were not second nature to obey his Emperor, Beshelar might have frozen in bewilderment. How can it be, that he is the cause of all this and yet they still trust him with their child?

“No.” Csethiro Zhasan steps forward, eyes sharp as blades and voice just as cold. “We will. You have done enough today, Lieutenant.”

Kiru’s expression is no more readable than Cala’s, but while it is not an agreement, is it not a protest.

With Kiru’s support, the Empress gathers up her son in her arms, and at last they all walk from the muddy garden back into the halls of the Alcethmaret.

Obediently, silently, Beshelar follows them to the doctor’s chambers, and while Kiru begins her work, he and Cala take up positions by the door. The Emperor has said nothing to him. But Beshelar knows he cannot escape the consequences of what has happened, and so he gathers his courage - for it is all he has - steps forward, and when Edrehasivar acknowledges him, kneels and looks away.

“You cannot be unaware of how this happened. That I-” the word nearly chokes him but formality cannot be a refuge now, “that I, through negligence and incaution, caused this harm. I submit myself to your judgement-”

The Emperor interrupts him, voice as cold as ever Beshelar has heard him use with an unpleasant petitioner. “If you have anything more relevant to contribute than self-recrimination, Lieutenant, we would be glad to hear it.”

Edrehasivar turns his attention to Kiru once again, leaving Beshelar to jerk to his feet and resume his place by the door, one overwhelming realization ringing in his head: he has been selfish. There is no place in this relationship for his own emotions, blinding as they are. Not only has he hurt the boy he swore to protect, he has disgracefully allowed himself to be so overcome. And worse still, he has let it impact his duty.

It is unforgivable.

He and Cala stay nearly an hour past the end of their shift, to allow Kiru time to finish her work. When they at last depart, it is a source of both relief and dread: Beshelar no longer has to witness the Emperor’s distress or Chelis’s pain, no longer has to fear that he will cause further harm, but he no longer has any distraction from his guilt.

Cala, inscrutable as ever, hangs unusually close as they walk through the halls. They do not talk as they retrieve their meals from the kitchens. Beshelar eats, somehow, though he feels sick with himself, and all too soon he is staring at the report form on his writing desk, for the first time having to search for words to describe the day’s events. And his role in them.

“Do not forget to report that you defended the Emperor and his family from an assassin,” Cala comments, breaking what little focus he had. The lightness in the words does not obscure the fact that the praise is honest. “Chelis will heal, Beshelar.” Cala’s voice is softer now, the humor replaced with something else.

“So we hope. Such an injury could easily leave lasting harm,” Beshelar says, forcing himself to look at Cala.

Cala is watching him not with judgement but with concern. With compassion. He turns away from that gentle gaze, knowing himself unworthy of it. Cala continues, undeterred.

“Kiru believes it will heal cleanly. I trust her expertise.” _As should you_ is unspoken but unmistakably implied. But still, Kiru is not _certain_ , and Beshelar has been taught not to rely on uncertainties.

“And if it does not?” he presses. “If the heir to the throne is… is crippled because of us?”

“That is unlikely.”

“But if it does not heal…”

“Then he will adapt. As children do.”

“Even if we are fortunate enough that there is no lasting harm, this could very easily have been far worse.”

“And yet it was not.” Cala’s voice is cool, unyielding, and would be comforting if Beshelar would allow himself to listen.

“It does not change-”

“That is _enough_ , Deret.”

It is the tone, rather than the words, that breaks through and silences him; Beshelar is distracted for several startled moments by the realization that he does not remember the last time Cala raised his voice to him. Or to anyone.

Cala speaks again, and this time Beshelar does not look away. “It does neither you nor Chelis any good to dwell on _what might have been_ ,” he says, and there is that firm certainty in his eyes that shows only at the most serious of times. “And if you continue to berate and blame yourself for what was mere misfortune, you will only do yourself harm.”

Beshelar is in the midst of finding a way of saying _it is only right_ that does not sound absurd when Cala interrupts him again.

“And do not say it is _deserved_ , or _proper,_  or any such nonsense, because it is _not_ , and I will tell thee this until I am satisfied that thou knowest it to be true.”

The shift into informal-second does not escape Beshelar. If he doubted Cala’s words before, here is proof that he is utterly earnest.

But if it is to be a balm to his sins, it is a weak one.

He finishes the report, takes it himself to the pneumatic station to be sent to Captain Orthema’s office (for to hand off such sensitive documents to a page is too great a risk to bear), and prepares for sleep, roughly and unsuccessfully attempting to push the day’s events from his mind.

He sleeps, because he must, and when he wakes there is a moment of blissful blankness before he remembers the Prince’s arm crushed under his boot, Chelis’s anguished crying, Csethiro Zhasan’s damning glare, Edrehasivar’s sharp rebuke, Cala’s concern. He remembers that the Emperor’s father would no doubt have demanded revethvoran for what he has done. If he has been allowed to live, it is because the Emperor trusts him in his duties- or it is because the Emperor holds too much affection for his servants to deal with them as tradition dicates he must. But even if he will not condemn Beshelar for this, he must at least speak of it, as he has not yet done. Edrehasivar will certainly correct his oversight today, and that knowledge sits heavy in his heart as he and Cala prepare for their shift.

They wash and dress and eat, and in the heart of the Alcethmeret they find Kiru waiting for them outside the Emperor’s chambers.

“How fare you?” Cala asks, and Beshelar prepares himself for any sort of news.

“All is well. We expect Chelis is already eager to play again. Ebremis made him a cream cake last night, and that cheered him. As for the Emperor,” her expression turns fond, sympathetic, “we have dealt with anxious fathers in our time, and he is far from the worst we have seen.”

“And the Zhasan?”

“Assured of her son’s well-being, and dearly wishing that she could deal with the assassin herself.”

But it was not the assassin who hurt her child.

While they wait for Edrehasivar and Telimezh to emerge, Kiru pulls Cala aside a moment to speak quietly with him. Beshelar does not try and listen, for such would be improper and impolite, but they are not far away and he cannot help but overhear some of their conversation.

Kiru asks something, low and concerned, and Cala’s response is equally grave: “I am trying, but I do not know if he truly hears me.”

They continue a few moments longer, inaudible, and then the Emperor is ready and Kiru and Telimezh take their leave.

The morning is shockingly ordinary in most respects: Edrehasivar takes his place at the table, Isheian presents him with a cup of tea, Mer Aisava comes in with an armful of papers and letters and begins his report on the night’s developments. Csethiro Zhasan arrives moments later to join her husband. She pointedly does not look at Beshelar, and there is a tension to her step that might be anger. Mer Aisava continues his report, answering questions from both the Emperor and his wife. The Court has mostly grown accustomed both to Csethiro expressing her opinions on political matters and to the Emperor heeding them, in defiance of all tradition. Or, at least, they have ceased to protest it where word might reach Imperial ears.

Their shift is long and terrible and crowded with meetings, and Beshelar still cannot determine what his Emperor is thinking. But it can be nothing good. Not after what has happened.

Finally, their shift nears its end as they deliver the Emperor to his edocharei to be dressed for a meeting with a trade delegation from Pencharn.

In the few moments when the Emperor is not close enough to hear them, Cala turns to Beshelar. “Whatever account he holds you to, he would not want this,” he says, ever as steady and calm and kind as he has been since Chelis’s injury. “He does not wish for the people around him to suffer in any way.” _And he holds an especial concern for his constant guard,_ Cala does not need to say.

Such a contradiction, then, that he be bound both to serve the Emperor and to discomfit him. But it has been so since their first meeting, and evidently it will continue to be so.

Beshelar says nothing. Cala sighs, but the sympathy does not leave his face. “One could sooner convince a dragon to give up his treasure than convince you not to hold yourself responsible for every action taken under your watch.” He is quiet a moment, his ears low, eyes gently pleading. “But as I will continue to remind thee, what happened then was only misfortune, many factors in the making.”

The Emperor emerges, and Beshelar will forever wonder if he had heard Cala’s words, for he looks from Cala to Beshelar and says, voice low and tired, “Will you stay a little longer? We feel we must address the issue of yesterday.”

“Of course, Serenity,” Cala says before Beshelar can. The Emperor turns to him, and he repeats the agreement. It is useless for him to fear what is next, but the apprehension is there and will not be ignored.

Edrehasivar goes to the door and summons a page. Soon after, the page returns, Csethiro Zhasan striding ahead of him. She enters the room with what to Beshelar still feels like barest courtesy, and stands beside her husband in a manner previous emperors never would have allowed.

And then the Emperor speaks.

“Both of you reacted as quickly and bravely as we could have wished. And through it you certainly saved our son’s life, and likely ours as well.”

Beside him, the Empress nods, her expression softening for the first time Beshelar has seen since the previous day. “Chelis is recovering well,” she says, a mother’s pride and protectiveness coming into her eyes. “And while we do wish things had proceeded differently, we are grateful for our safety.”

It does not erase his guilt, for nothing can do so entirely, but it lessens it, and when the Emperor dismisses him, he feels he has regained something he thought utterly lost.

He has the Emperor’s trust. And that of the Zhasan. The thought is steadying, as firm and unchanging as Cala’s reassurances or the laws of his oath. It is not for him to question if he deserves that trust. As the Emperor wills it, so it will be.

**Author's Note:**

> Join the tiny fandom discussion and RP at http://www.slashnet.org/webclient/thegoblinemperor


End file.
